John F. Rosmann - The Mind Masters 04 - The Amazons.pdf - John F. Rosmann - widez2

THIS WOMAN WOULD DECIDE

WHAT KIND OF MAN BRITT W AS, AND WHAT KIND HE WOULD BE

Among the Amazon women, males were divided into two categories. One was that of breeders, tending

the huts, raising the children, satisfying the Amazons' sexual appetites and their need to give birth to

worthy daughters. The other category was that of workers, inferior types who would only pollute the

breed with their sperm. Naturally, they were castrated.

Now was Britt St. Vincent's time of testing. Before him stood a naked warrior woman, flaunting before

his gaze her beautifully shaped legs, her perfect pink-nippled breasts, her full wealth of golden hair. On

the dirt floor by her feet was a sleeping mat. But this night there would be no sleeping on it.

For by the dawn, Britt's fate as a man would be decided—and he steeled himself to his task. . . .

WHAT POWER COULD CHECK THE AMAZONS' MARCH TO WORLD CONQUEST?

ONLY BRITT ST. VINCENT COULD FIND OUT—IF HE SURVIVED.

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THE MIND MASTERS #4

Amazons

Ian Ross

A SIGNET BOOK

NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY

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"AIIIIYEEEEE!!!" The woman's shriek rever-berates across the mammoth plaza and ricochets down the dozens of

death-quiet streets that lead from the place. The echoes bounce between build-ings bathed blood-red by the rising

tropic sun. The sound causes corpselike bodies that are strewn in the streets to tremble to life again.

The great solar orb slowly heaves itself over the horizon like the red eye of a cosmic giant curious about the cause

of the cry. In the eddy of silence that follows the shriek, one can almost hear the dis-tant roar of atomic fires on the

sun's surface as it stabs its searing red rays into the ultramodern build-ings of the Plaza del Sol.

The near naked woman who screamed is running in terror from the white marble plaza, her bare feet rapidly slapping

on the cobblestones of the side streets. "Exu! Exu!" she screams as she runs, leav-ing in her wake the bodies which

begin to rise grog-gily from the gutters. She is a beautiful Cariocan and her bare breasts bounce firmly with each

fear-filled footfall that speeds her out of the alien inner city and back to the filth of the familiar favelados who dwell in

the slums at the edge of the jungle.

Jeee-zuz! Britt thinks with angry annoyance. He shakes his head. Britt is sitting up in his bed, having been

awakened and reflexively snapped into that position in response to the cry that had originated in the plaza onto which

the window of his hotel room is opened. Don't tell me that they start again this

2 IAN ROSS

early in the morning. He gently massages Ms sleep-burning eyes with his right-hand thumb and

forefin-ger. The touch causes tears to flow; the salty water cools his hot eyeballs.

Britt focuses his blurry eyes on the alarm clock that ticks on the dresser across the room. 5:03! . . .

forgot how early the sun rises down here near the equator.

". . . Mmmmmmm . . ." The slow, deep sigh vi-brates through Britt's chest as he stretches the sleep

stiffness out of his rippling muscles. In spite of Ms body's lingering feeling of fatigue, Britt's ever eager

brain prevents him from lying back down again. It's not already, he thinks, taking mental note of the

lin-gering coolness of the humid sheet on his naked thighs.

Britt slips his bare feet onto the cool carpet and stands up. A light tropical morning breeze is gently

rustling the transparent wMte curtains which frame the open window.

Outside, the sky that backgrounds the sun-washed government buildings across the wide plaza is

in-credibly blue. Damn ...

Britt walks to the window. I was hoping for some cloud cover this morning so Greg could run

softer Goodyears and maybe gain a few positions on the starting grid.

He stands at the window and surveys the scene four stories below. After several seconds, Britt sighs,

folds his strong arms across Ms broad, tanned chest and leans forward, bracing himself against the

win-dowsill. The wooden sill at first feels cold against Ms naked abdomen. I'll bet it's going to be

110 degrees today.

Britt's eyes scan the slowly awakening bodies scattered on the sidewalks and steps below. I don't see

how they do it. Recalling an entire evening in a single eyeblink, his brain flashes scenes of Ms own revelry

after yesterday's practice: the skimpy silver costume he wore; the gleaming, sweaty chests of the

AMAZONS 3

samba dancers; the glistening bare breasts and but-tocks of the wild Cariocan women. And that was just the

first night of — what do they call it? — carni-val He smiles and shakes his head. This is only Sat-urday morning. ...

I wonder if we can survive four more nights of Mardi Gras madness.

Below, the brightening streets are strewn with streamers, cans and confetti, bottles, drunks, and banners.

On the plaza below and on sidewalks ev-erywhere, disheveled dreamers raise their heavy, pounding heads,

squint briefly at the rising sun and slowly stagger to their feet to drag their incongru-ously costumed bodies

back to executive penthouses, middle-class homes, or the reeking, fly-filled favelas.

The sun's rays reflect off the snow-white slabs of this fabulous plaza and Britt feels the solar warmth on

Ms chest. A small sting on Ms cheek elicits a fast reflexive slap from Ms right hand. "Damned mosquito!"

Britt holds up Ms hand and looks at the smashed insect on Ms fingertips: a drop of Britt's own blood

from the burst body of the bug is splattered bright red on his skin. Suddenly the focus of Ms eyes snaps

from the stain on Ms fingers to a similar stain on the wMte steps over on the far plaza section that leads to

the house of the Brazilian Senate. "God! Not an-other one!"

The blood there is bright red, glistening, still draining from the groin of the lifeless nude man ly-ing on the

wMte stone steps.

RrrrrAAAARRrrr!!! —the black machine snarls past like a jungle cat!

"1:14.32," says Dr. John Hollander as his thumb presses the button to stop the ticking hands of the stopwatch he holds. "Greg

blistered that first set of gummy Goodyears, but this harder compound looks sticky enough to get him up front on the grid for

Tuesday's race."

Britt nods. He is sitting in his own sleek Eagle 5000 car. The 'fingers of his left hand work to smooth the thin

leather around the knuckles of the driving glove he has just pulled onto Ms right hand. A large, grease-stained towel stretched

between two jack handles shades Britt as he sits sweltering in the cockpit. Sweat trickles down his hairy chest beneath his

driving suit.

"Gott in Himmel ... was fur tin heise Tag," murmurs mechanic Karl Krirnmel. The huge Ger-man squats on his

haunches behind Britt and fin-ishes a final adjustment on the engine injectors. "Fertig," he says, slapping the engine cover with

his large, bony paw.

Click! Britt's right hand reaches out and snaps a toggle switch on the crude dash of the cramped racer. "Switch on." He

watches in the mirror beside his shoulder. Karl's reflection nods.

Br-br-br-bramm-BRAM! BRAM! BRAM.'—the noisy V-8 engine blasts to life as Britt's finger touches a button on

the dash at the same time that Ms right foot pumps the throttle. His legs are 4

AMAZONS 5

cramped close together inside the tubular chassis. He shifts position, squirming in the tight lay-down seat so

that his feet, deep in the narrow nose of the racer, have a better angle at the tiny metal pedals. No wonder

they call these things "coffins on wheels," Britt thinks as he adjusts himself for his first com-petition ride

in a Formula 5000 machine.

BRAM-BRAAM! He stabs the throttle and watches the tachometer needle jump up to 6000 rpms

and then sag back down to a twitchy idle at 1500. Karl's got the throttle response down well this

time....I'll see if I can put his hard work to some

good use out there.

Thock! Britt's head jerks slightly under the im-pact from the firm slap of Karl's hand hitting his helmet

top in the traditional signal that everything is ready,

Britt flashes back the thumbs-up signal with his right hand a second before it drops onto the stubby

chrome gearshift handle that nestles beneath the curving side cowl of the brutal but sleek white machine.

Simultaneously, Britt's left foot pushes in the clutch and his right hand shoves the gear lever forward fast

into first gear. The ball of Britt's right foot now presses on the accelerator pedal... gently ... brrrRRRRR!

The throbbing metal heart of the machine instantly responds with a faster pulse, and the sleek torpedo on

wheels begins to move forward, rumbling and rolling down through the pits and toward the white line that

marks the entry onto the track. The tanned Brazilian official in a white jacket and green slacks is raising his

hand, a sign for Britt to stop and wait for the man to wave the flag that will signal a clear track. Britt

touches the brake pedal, and although he cannot hear it through his heavy helmet, he cart feel the brake

calipers, like hy-draulic fingers, tighten on the rotating disks and squeeze the car to a stop. That feel

signifies that Britt's conscious brain is easing into that race driver's union of man and machine in which the

6 IAN ROSS

brain's cerebral circuits monitor both the electro-chemical machinery of the body and the

electro-mechanical machinery of the race car without preju-dice. Race car and race driver becoming one

... a unified whole which must strive and survive at death-dealing speeds on the blistering track.

The brain's vision organs monitor the sudden movement of the green flag and cerebral cells in-stantly

explode out an electric message to muscles that respond and move bone levers that move the metal levers.

The sudden pressure of rocketing ac-celeration pushes against the living framework of the chest and flexes

the metal framework of the car. The steering wheel is one with Britt's left hand; the metal column is a

steel nerve link which feeds his brain the feel of its fingers that are the tires digging into the hot asphalt

here at the first high speed left turn. The left turn is sharp and changes suddenly to a broad, sweeping

right-hand swing. Britt's mind, eyes, hands and feet, his wheels, gears, levers and motor are working

together in graceful unison. The jungle that crowds close to the track here smoothes into a dark green blur:

Britt's speed is rising over a hundred miles per hour and continues to increase as the long, fast curve opens

onto a chicaned stretch which most drivers streak through like a straighta-way by clipping the apexes from

corner to corner. As the velocity of the race car rises and rises, Britt's brain shifts into computerlike speed,

processing thousands of incoming bits of feel, sight and sound at billionth-of-a-second speed—working so

fast that internal and external time become separate realities with the 160 mph world of racing crawling

past in seeming slow motion as the brain moves into nanosecond mode.

RrrRRROOOWWerrr!!! Britt's car flashes past a small crowd of practice watchers standing on the

outer edge of the track here where the chicane stretch abruptly becomes an uphill curve. He rockets

toward the crest unable to see the horizon from his

AMAZONS

reclining position but knowing that like a roller coaster he will become. slightly airborne and dive down the

other side into a steep left-then-right switchback— Suddenly the road falls from beneath Mm! A fluttery

feeling tingles in Ms solar plexus and the spinning wheels in front droop down on their chrome suspension

arms! Got to time this exactly, Britt thinks in an exciting instant before the car noses down onto the track

again.

And time it he does!—turning the steering wheel just at the moment of impact! The tires growl, hold-ing

on to the track surface as the speeding man and machine try to turn against the forward pull of their

momentum. The left front tire sends up a small spray of dust and gravel as it drifts off the edge of the

pavement before the other tires gain a firm hold. Britt's cheeks sag and his neck feels the heavy pull as its

muscles strain to hold his helmeted head up-right against the right-then-left jerk of this downhill S bend. In

an eyeblink Britt's through and picking up downhill speed, rocketing toward the straight with its colorful

crowded grandstands on the left and the jam-packed pits on the right.

... 160 ... 165 ... 170 ... Britt's mind is converting the tachometer readings into miles per hour

even while it commands his eyes to rivet on a slightly slower car he is overtaking like a combat pi-lot

closing in on the tail of an enemy plane. The end of the straight rushes at the two cars! Now they are

racing side by side! There is room only for one in the groove, and the knock-off spinners on the left rear

wheel of the other car whir only an inch from Britt's right front tire as he creeps past! 6 ... 5 ... 4 —the

brake warning signs at the side of the track flash past as the sharMike snouts of the sleek racers skim the

black surface of the track. Suddenly the nose of the red racer beside Britt's white machine dives lower,

almost touching the track. Britt, too, hits his brakes a nanosecond later and takes the in-ner line through the

corner an eyeblink before the

8 IAN ROSS

other machine tucks in behind him, howling like an angry hornet.

Nose to tail they snick through the tight left-hander turn and accelerate on to the sweeping right-hand

turn again. OK .. . Britt thinks reluctantly. Here goes. .. . Perspiration forms a dark splotch on the light

leather of his gloved right hand. He drops it from the small, thick steering wheel and presses his index

finger on an unmarked button on his black dash panel—

BRAM! BRAM! BRAM! BRAM! His engine be-gins to misfire. Britt's right fist shoots up into the air,

signaling that he is having trouble and is pulling off the track. He jabs the brakes and the car slows as if

being held back by a giant, unseen hand. He coasts toward the outer edge of the asphalt and '

eases onto the shoulder.

The gravel and dust crunch dryly under the wide racing tires. The car is almost completely stopped

now. Britt looks at the dust and stones sticking to the slowly turning tires.

"Shit."

All for the cause, Dr. Webster. At this moment Britt's thoughts are emotion-charged. The fine-honed

competitive edge that could make him a win-ner on that track, the trait that has helped him sur-vive so far

in his work for Mero Parapsychological Institute, rebels for a moment at the way he has faked ignition

trouble with the wiring rig that Karl has built into the system for just that purpose. But Britt doesn't sit here

long: the terrible heat of to-day's Brazilian sun is baking him inside this tiny cockpit. "Agh! This goddamned

nomex!" Britt puts a hand on each side of the cowl and heaves himself to his feet. He stands for a second

on the seat and impatiently unbuckles his helmet strap.

"Ahhh," he inhales. The tropic breeze feels mo-mentarily cool in his sweaty scalp. Quickly he steps out

of the low racer. He turns and drops his helmet on the seat.

AMAZONS 9

ROWR! ROWR! ROWR.'—three racers streak past in a blur of orange, yellow and blue. Britt squints in

the sunlight at the disappearing cars as he unzips the front of his driving suit. The itching from the

sweat-wet fireproof nomex undershirt stops instantly as the breeze blows through the mesh of the cloth.

Britt slips his arms out of the suit sleeves and pulls the nomex garment off over his head.

Hmmm ... that sun's hot as hell. I'd better slip the top oj my suit on again or I'll fry. The thin white

cotton of the outer suit is already cool from the evaporating perspiration. With the front left open, Britt feels

comfortable from the breeze. Well ... I'd better find some shade until they get out here with a taw. The

way things move here in Brazil, that could take some time.

The dust here on the verge of the track reflects the sun's heat. But just fifteen feet away along this

deserted section of the jungle-surrounded track out-side Brasilia's city limits the humid undergrowth is so

thick that one must hack with a machete to pene-trate it. There is no shelter here for man. The big green

leaves of the plants gleam in the sunlight, al-most seeming to stare with silent hostility at this member of

the human race which has paved and now plays on the rich earth in which plants had once thrived.

John F. Rosmann - The Mind Masters 04 - The Amazons.pdf

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